


I'm only gonna say this once

by pearl_o



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-10
Updated: 2005-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:22:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vecchio's pebble doesn't bother Ray, and his doesn't bother Vecchio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm only gonna say this once

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tracey's birthday: my attempt at a Ray/Ray story for her, only somewhat successful, I'm afraid.

The thing about me and Vecchio is, we don't talk about stuff. It's like we got this unspoken rule between us from the beginning -- some things are _off-limits_, do not even go there or you're going to get a fist in your face and a boot to your head or maybe just both of us getting really drunk and weepy, which is even worse.

So there's all these topics that just don't exist between the two of us. Stella, _check_. Fraser, _check_. His time as Armando, _check_. My time as him, _check_.

It's not like there's not a lotta stuff I'd like to ask him, either. I got lots of questions for Vecchio. Like _What's your problem?_ and _What did all of them see in you, anyway?_ and _What happened to that nine kilos?_ and _How could you just leave like that without even warning him?_ and _What was he like with the Victoria chick?_ and _How come there wasn't anything about you being queer when I was studying to be you?_ and _What the fuck are we doing here and why are we doing it?_

I don't ask any of it, though. I don't ask Vecchio anything. We might act like assholes a lot, but we only had one real fistfight ever, and that was when we both had just got back to Chicago and I asked him something about the Gardino case and Irene Zuko and he punched me straight in the mouth. Vecchio has a better arm on him than I thought.

So I don't ask Vecchio any of that stuff, and if he has questions for me, I don't know anything about that either. We have more stuff we don't talk about than things we do.

That's okay, though. Talking isn't what we're good at.

* * *

This is what we're good at:

Maybe once a week -- sometimes a little more, maybe a little less -- I get this knock on my door late at night. And I go and answer it, and Vecchio's standing right there waiting. I let him in, he goes and sits on the couch. I put on music and dim the lights and get us some drinks, and we sit there and don't say anything. After a couple minutes, one of us gets sick of it, and we move straight to the goal of the evening.

Vecchio is a good kisser, which is another thing I didn't expect of him. He's got nice hands, soft but not too soft. He's not too bad to look at underneath all the fancy clothes, either.

Sometimes we go to my bedroom, and I get on my hands and knees and Vecchio fucks me until I can't see straight, hard and fast and ruthless until there's come all over my sheets and a sweaty Italian guy collapsed on me and breathing heavy.

Most of the time we stay on the couch. Vecchio's always hard when I reach for him, and we've done it enough now that I can get his pants open real easy, push him back against cushions and kneel down between his legs and suck his cock. The first time we did it I screwed up at the end and ended up with his jizz all over my face, which was really fucking uncomfortable, let me tell you, but Vecchio made it up that time with a blowjob of his own. He still does that sometimes, but a lot of the time he'll just drag me up from the floor, sit me there between this legs, wrap his other arm around my stomach and jerk me off like that, leaning his head forward on my shoulder to watch his hand on my dick. I watch it, too, and it never takes very long when he does it that way.

One time Vecchio stayed the night, sleeping in my bed. In the morning he made eggs and we ate breakfast in my disgusting kitchen, both of us real quiet. It was awkward, because we had rules for everything else, but we hadn't bothered to make up the rules for this. I guess his ma must have been real worried when he never came home that night, because we never did that again. That was kind of a relief. They were good eggs, though.

* * *

When me and Fraser were up in the wilderness, he used to show me how you sharpen stones, like for a knife or something -- you use this other stone, the harder stone, and you just start chipping away, bit by bit.

What I think is, we all start out the same. There I was, twelve years old, everything was fresh and shiny and perfect. My heart hadn't even gotten unwrapped yet; it was unused, it was _brand new_. I was ready to take it for a ride. But me and Stella, it was just like that rock thing. I was the little stone and she was the hard one, and twenty years we just kept striking against each other. So my heart was real sharp afterwards, but most of it's chipped away, too.

Same thing with my parents, my mom and dad running away for ten years. Another chip. And then up in Canada -- that's the last bit of it.

Mostly what I got now is about the size of a pebble.

That's the thing about Vecchio: he doesn't care. Vecchio doesn't want more than my pebble, Vecchio doesn't _need_ more than my pebble. Vecchio's rock isn't that big himself, anyway -- two ex-wives, and the other girls, and his dad was an asshole, too, and then I don't even know the whole deal between him and Fraser, and then like I said, whatever he did undercover, we don't talk about all that.

So me and Vecchio, we're both carrying pebbles, and his doesn't bother mine and mine doesn't bother his.

* * *

See, I _was_ Vecchio, for almost two years. I was just borrowing his life. So I might've thought I was happy then -- I walked like I was happy, I talked like I was happy, sometimes I even thought like I was happy -- but really, I couldn't've been that happy. Because that happiness wasn't me, that was all part of Vecchio. How can you be happy if you're not you? If you don't even what "you" means anymore? You can't, so I must not have been.

So it doesn't matter whether or not I'm happy _now_, because at least I know who I am, right?

Stanley Raymond Kowalski, at your service.

And this way it's simpler. I know what's going on now, I know what everything means, I know all of that stuff. I know _Vecchio_ \-- hell, I grew up with dozens of guys just like Vecchio, give or take a couple inches, and I bet Vecchio can say just the same for me. I don't hurt my head wondering about any of this, I don't worry about the future, I don't worry about who I am, I don't do any of that anymore.

This is easier. This makes sense. So it's got to be better like this.

* * *

So Vecchio comes over to my place and for once we're actually hanging out, watching my tv and eating some chips and drinking beer. There's a hockey game on, and apparently Vecchio knows absolutely nothing about hockey, and also he doesn't much like it either, but that's tough luck for him, because it's my tv and I'm king of the castle here. So we watch that, and then we watch the news, and then the late night show starts, and my body is completely aware that this is the longest we've ever been together like this, not working, without it leading to fucking. I'm watching Vecchio out of the corner of my eye, where he's slouching against the arm of the couch, and when he turns just a little and says, "Kowalski--" I'm ready for it.

I murmur, "Shut up, Vecchio," and I get on my knees, and Vecchio gets that little half-grin, half-smirk on his face, and gets his hands in my hair, like he's got his own special grip there, handles or something. "Don't say a word," I warn him, and then I get his cock out, get my fist around it, lick my lips and go down.

I suck him for a long time, really getting into it. The tv's still on in the background, but I'm not listening to that, and Vecchio's making lots of soft noises, but I'm not listening to that, either; all I'm hearing is my own sounds, the slurpy wet sounds my mouth makes against his dick. That works me up, revs my engine, but not as much as it's doing for Vecchio, and when he comes, he makes these noises like he's _dying_ and also pulls my hair a little.

I'm still on my knees in front of the sofa when Vecchio pulls himself back together enough to look down on me.

"You just screwing around here, or are you ever going to fuck me already?"

I don't know if Vecchio's done this before; I don't ask him and he doesn't tell me. I get him on his back on my bed, so I'm staring right down at his face -- his shut eyes, the lip he's biting -- when I slide into him. I watch Vecchio's face the whole time I'm fucking him, slow until he's hard again and then fast until he comes again with his hand on his cock and then even faster until I'm done, too, my orgasm whizzing through me. I stare at Vecchio the whole time and I don't think about Canada, I don't think about soft furs or the smell of a woodfire or snow outside or-- or-- or anything. I don't think about anything but right here and right now.

After we're done, Vecchio takes a shower. When he comes out he says, "See you tomorrow, Kowalski," and he leaves before I think of anything to say back to him. Then I go back into the living room and sit on the couch again and watch infomercials on the tv until I fall asleep.

And when I wake up, the morning sun's coming in the windows. And I'm in my underwear and I've got this weird crick in my neck and the sun's just showing just how dingy and old everything in my apartment is -- but I don't _care_.

I feel _fine_.


End file.
